


Lost Without a Trace

by andsowefell



Series: Alternate Universes [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alien!Lucifer, Alternate Universe - Aliens, Alternate Universe - No Angels, Alternate Universe - Police, Car Accidents, Cop!Sam, Hospitals, M/M, Samifer - Freeform, hurt!Lucifer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-26 19:11:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3861394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andsowefell/pseuds/andsowefell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In hindsight, it should have been obvious. <br/>No one is ever hit by a speeding car and doesn’t leave at least a dent. No one falls onto the front full-force and doesn’t cause the slightest crack in the windshield. <br/>And the lack of personal records, along with being named Lucifer, should have been a dead giveaway… But Sam Winchester, a newly employed policeman, has never been good at spotting any kind of unnatural activity, and this is just one more lost cause.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Found

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweetonmeclarence (redmasque)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redmasque/gifts).



> This is for the wonderful and absolutely amazing [Sweet](sweetonmeclarence.tumblr.com), who wanted a thing with aliens and Samifer, and Alien!Lucifer, so here it is, darling ^_^

Sam Winchester was thoroughly, fully sick of the local radio. Montana had to have the worst DJs of all time; for days on end, he had heard nothing but Janet Jackson and Europe, and he was more than ready to simply blot out the noise by punching his radio until his fist was run through by the tiny shards of broken stereo glass and Janet’s dulcet tones were silenced.  
When the song changed to _Unskinny Bop_ , Sam groaned and raised his fist to shut the radio off for good. Dean would understand why he’d mutilated the Impala. It was for a worthy cause.  
A dull, heavy thud interrupted his train of thought, followed by the feeling of the car’s hood stopping short and something rather large rolling off. Horrified, Sam pulled the handbrake and fumbled with his belt. He bolted out of the car, nearly tripping over his own feet in his desperate attempt to help whoever or whatever he had hit.  
The first thing he noticed was a sizable pool of blood, seeping into cracks in the asphalt and tinting the dark grey black and brown. The next was a man. Tall, but Sam was taller. Sam thought he was blond, but with so much blood soaked into the man’s hair and clothes, he had no way of being sure. It might have been light brown, or red. He was unconscious. Stubble lined his jaw and the edge of his throat. His left arm was askew in a hideous angle, obviously broken in several places. His right looked unharmed, but both his legs were the worse for it; his thighs were crushed, a mess of blood and splintered bone, his right shin mutilated beyond belief.  
Stunned, Sam knelt beside the man, lifted his hand, and tested his wrist for a pulse. It was there, but weak. Sam dug his phone out of his pocket, dialed 9-1-1, and hit _Call_. He waited anxiously for the dial tone, and when the line picked up, he found he’d actually been holding his breath pent in. In a low whimper, he released it and took another deep breath to steady himself. He answered the standard questions, voice shaking, mind reeling, feeling barely coherrent.  
Something shifted in the corner of his peripheral vision. Startled, he glanced down. The man’s eyes had opened, huge and unfocused, pale, striking blue. He didn’t seem to realise what was going on; sweat beaded his forehead and cheekbones, his mouth was slightly open, his breathing quick and shallow. Sam quickly shoved his phone into his pocket again and wiped a thin film of grime and sweat from his cheek. His skin was ice-cold, damp. Shock seemed a likely prospect.  
Not quite knowing what to do, Sam took off his jacket and awkwardly covered the man’s torso with it. Blue eyes narrowed in confused exhaustion, pupils shrinking considerably. The man closed his mouth and began breathing through his nose. He seemed to have regained consciousness. Sam didn’t have the slightest idea what to do. He hoped the man wasn’t in pain, but if he was, what could he do? He hardly had anything with him that would help with injuries of such gravity.  
A blaring noise in the distance told him that an ambulance was arriving. Blue light tinged the surrounding area in cold, angled shadows. Sam carefully brushed a bit of hair out of the man’s forehead. Blood clung to his fingers like a film. The ambulance pulled up beside the pair.  
The doors swung out, and a paramedic exited the driver’s cab. She looked disheveled and stressed, her hair pulled into a haphazard ponytail, her clothes crumpled and worn. Dark rings circled her eyes. Sam felt a twinge of pity for her; he regretted having called her. She was probably exhausted.  
“Let him down, sir,” she sighed and took a key ring from her pants. She unlocked the back of the ambulance and pulled a stretcher from inside. Sam set the man down as gently as he could, not wanting to hurt him, and anxiously watched as the paramedic heaved him onto the litter. Throughout the procedure, he never made a noise. Perhaps he’d passed out again.  
When she had finished, the paramedic looked up at Sam through narrowed eyes and wiped a hand across her brow.   
“Could you help me lift him? He’s a bit heavier than he looks,” she muttered and tucked a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear. Even exhausted and stressed out, she remained pretty. Sam found himself wondering what she looked like wearing makeup, and whether she wore it at all. He bent and helped her lift the litter carefully. She was right. The man was heavy.  
They slowly buckled the stretcher onto the rafters inside the back of the ambulance, and Sam let the woman take care of the rest.   
“Do you know him?” she asked when she’d finished attaching a battalion of machinery and monitors to the man’s body and locked the doors of the ambulance.   
“No,” Sam admitted. “I just… Well, I hit him. I feel really guilty right now. What if he dies?”  
“We’ll see if it comes to that. I just put him on an EEG and an EKG; his brain function seems a little slow, but it’s working fine otherwise, and so long as we don’t go tumbling down any steep slopes, I’m sure his heart won’t stop suddenly. The biggest thing I’m worried about is blood loss.”  
Sam nodded. “He was cold when I touched him,” he explained. “I think he’s in shock, or going into it.”  
The girl mirrored his nod tiredly. “I’ll do what I can for him,” she promised and slowly walked to the front of the ambulance. She unlocked the doors, sat down, and inserted the key into the ignition. Sam sighed softly and ran a hand through his hair.  
“Care to join? I’ll call a towing service for your car,” she offered, and Sam found himself sitting and buckled in beside her before he’d truly thought about it.  
They left as soon as the Impala was safely towed away. All the while, Sam found his mind wandering to the man in the back, and how he must be doing.

 

Dean was furious when he found out about the Impala. Sam let him be. He consistently reminded himself that, had he not stayed with the man, the man would have died. A person’s life seemed more important to him than how the Impala fared.  
An old man bustled by in his wheelchair, waking Sam from his bored stupor. For the fifth time, he studied a crack in the hospital’s mint-coloured walls. It was nothing special, simply a distracting anomaly to take his mind off of tonight’s events. Somewhere down the hallway, a buzzing noise sounded, followed by a small _thump_ and the clink of change falling into a slot. A hungry kid at a vending machine, Sam reckoned, and smiled tiredly.  
A nurse suddenly darted toward him, looking excited. Sam rose quickly.  
“Were you with that patient in room 2078?” she asked, voice dangerously breathy and high-pitched, marked by an impressively Southern diction. Sam wondered if she would faint; she was no pixie.   
“I don’t know who’s in that room,” Sam admitted and shrugged. “Sorry.”  
“It’s, uh, a man… he looks like he’s about in his forties, short, blond hair, pale. Anaïs told me he woke up, and she drived ‘im here.” The nurse wiped her hands on her pants, still breathing hard.  
“I don’t know who Anaïs is,” Sam replied, exasperated. The nurse nodded.  
“Look, I’ll take you to ‘is room and let you see for yourself. Unorthodox, I know, but ain’t gonna hurt nobody if you have a little look, ‘s how I see it, ‘leastways.”  
Sam disagreed with her on that, but he did want to know how the man he’d hit was doing. So he agreed with her, putting to use his best acting skills, and followed her to the room.  
The hallway seemed endless, winding on and on, twisting and branching in the unlikeliest places, until they reached the Intensive Care Unit. Sam felt his stomach drop. Suppose he’d hit the man hard enough to cause mortal injuries? Perhaps he’d broken things these doctors could not mend. Disgusted with himself, he slowly trudged forward.  
 _2069_ was emblazoned on the door. _Stomach Cancer; Stage C. Death Case._  
 _2071\. Working injury. Crushed ribcage and thorax._  
The next three doors were equally depressing and gruesome, and Sam found himself hesitating when the nurse stopped at _2078_.  
He read the plaque. _Car crash._. The only thing between him and a man he had probably killed stood here, and Sam slowly pushed it open, expecting nothing.  
A young man was standing at a table of equipment and instruments, leafing through a report, and quickly looked up when Sam entered the room.   
“Are you registered?” he asked, not unkindly, and set his report down. Even wearing wire-rimmed glasses and unflattering doctor’s attire, the man remained striking. Something about him reminded Sam of the man he’d hit. The eyes, and something of the jaw structure.   
“No,” Sam replied. “The nurse here told me that she thought I was with him, and an exception could be made to let me see him. I hit a man with my brother’s car earlier tonight, and I think he might be it.”  
The doctor nodded. “Come along, then.”  
He led Sam through a side door. The stench of blood and antiseptic fluid hit Sam like a physical blow. He gagged and covered his nose and mouth with his hand. The doctor grinned.  
“We haven’t been able to clean him up yet,” he apologised and gently steered Sam’s shoulders to the man’s bedside. And it was Him. The stranger he’d hit. Sam felt a pang of nausea rise in his stomach. They’d cleaned his hair and face, and his neck, but his shirt was glued to his chest with blood, ribs sticking out of the skin in places. The man was hooked up to a small armada of machines; Sam was surprised his heartbeat monitor was able to stick with the amount of blood slicking his skin.   
For several moments, Sam simply stood, gazing at his victim, eyes roaming over the pale, undeniably handsome features of a man he knew would die if a medical miracle didn’t happen. The doctor sighed softly.  
“He’s slipped into a coma,” he admitted in an apologetic tone. Sam nodded numbly. This was nothing like playing cop; when he arrested and accidentally killed criminals, it was always heat-of-the-moment. There was nothing he could do about it. This time, however, he thought he could have hit the brakes sooner, or swerved, or done _something_. Guilt burned in his mind.  
The doctor clasped Sam’s shoulder apologetically. “Did you know him?” he asked gently. Sam shook his head silently, not trusting himself to speak, and continued staring at the man’s still form. Short, neatly cut blonde hair had been brushed back, and Sam could make out the faintest dusting of stubble on his cheeks and jaw. His features were chiseled, almost aristocratic, painfully pale, and every drop of blood, every bruise, screamed from his skin like a billboard.

Instead, he sat in the proffered chair at the man’s bedside, wondering what he could possibly say to him when and if he awoke. _I’m sorry for almost killing you. You’re hot. Can I buy you dinner to make it better?_  
Something told him that wouldn’t go over too well. However léger the man may have been, such a joke was inexcusable in a situation like this.   
He was tired. A nap couldn’t hurt, could it? He decided to simply rest his eyes for several minutes, but the feeling was much more blissful than he’d anticipated, and before he knew it, sleep had covered him in dark, soothing cover.


	2. Met

He couldn’t say what awoke him, but he felt startled. Something was wrong. Sam glanced around the room, worried, anxious, until he saw the erect form of the man. 

His mind struggled to comprehend; how had he come out of his coma so quickly? It had to be something else; there had to be another explanation. He’d been unconscious; that had to be it. He had been unconscious, and now he was awake and recovering.  
Those blue, blue eyes fixed on him in a catatonic, empty stare told Sam the exact opposite.  
He held his breath. The man made no aggressive movements, did nothing other than stare at him, cerulean eyes piercing, head cocked in detached curiosity. His right arm twitched weakly, failing to respond to the commands of his brain. His heart monitor began to beep more quickly; evidently, the failure distressed him. Yet he made no attempt at repeating the motion.  
Sam stood on wobbly legs, worried, and slowly approached the man. There was a chair beside his bed as well, which Sam sat in, staring at him, wondering how different his life could be at this moment. He could be sitting at home with his family, eating dinner with his wife (did he have a wife?), preparing for work the next day… He could be doing _anything_ besides sitting there, an expression of detached stupor on his face, the slightest movements eluding his grasp.  
“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered, voice breaking. Tears pooled in his eyes. “I’m so sorry. I’ve ruined your life. I hope you won’t have to live this way forever.”  
Blue eyes softened slightly, and pale lips curved into a tiny smile. Sam shook his head. He knew the man couldn’t possibly be happy. Slowly, tentatively, he reached out to touch him – and recoiled.  
His mind thrummed with energy, something foreign and alien vying for his attention, strains of haunting, musical voices resounding. Stunned, Sam dropped out of the chair to his knees, clutching his head in his hands, growling. Terror threatened to debilitate him. The pressure of the force was too much.  
The man stared at him through empty eyes, body lax, all former curiosity gone. He was dead inside, completely gone. When he averted his gaze, Sam felt the crushing weight leave his mind, and collapsed against the cupboard, breathing hard. An idea came to him.  
Slowly, tentatively, he reached out with his mind. It felt stupid, like trying to get someone to hypnotise you, but there he was, trying to mentally communicate with a total stranger. He sent a careful _Who are you?_ to the man and was surprised to see pale eyes widen.  
_My name means nothing to you, human,_ the man replied coldly, tone superior. Sam waited patiently. He was annoyed, but he didn’t want to anger the man (creature?) further.  
_I’m sorry I hurt you,_ he tried. Icy eyes narrowed into slits, and the man-creature tilted his (its?) head. A wave of reluctant curiosity and predatory interest swept through his mind. He struggled to remember that the emotions were coming from the man.  
When the emotion passed, he felt the man exude something careful, mistrusting, but forgiving.  
_I trust you mean well, human. Otherwise I would snap your neck like a dry twig,_ he told Sam. Sam nodded, head bowed. _What is your name? What are you called,_ fafen _?_  
Sam shrugged. _Sam_ he replied carefully. The man’s eyes widened slightly.  
_No, not that. Your other name. Your_ true _name,_ he corrected. Sam blinked. His true name? Wasn’t Sam his true name?  
_Samuel,_ he tried again. The man’s face remained impassive and empty.  
_No, no,_ cordziz _. Your innermost name, the name you have told to none. Tell it to me. I have come a long way for you, and I wish to know._  
_I don’t know myself,_ Sam apologised. The catatonic stupor left the man’s face in an instant; his muscles tensed with rage, the beeping quickened, and his eyes glazed over, hard. Startled, Sam tried to back away before remembering that he was sitting with his back to a cupboard.  
A muscle pulsed in the man’s jaw. His eyes suddenly flicked to bright, electric blue, and that wouldn’t have worried Sam, had it not been for the lack of sclera or pupils he saw. The entirety of the man’s eyes was blue, much as a mamba’s eyes are black, or a demon’s.  
For a moment, both men sat there, Sam rigid with fear, the blonde rigid with anger, until a fuse blew. Sparks spit from a cable in the man’s heart monitor. Outside, wind howled and whipped at branches. Sam cowered into the corner, horrified. He wasn’t usually a man to lose his composure, but this was too much. How could anyone do _this_?  
When the walls began to crack, Sam threw his arms up over his head to protect himself. Pale blue light flickered in the man’s eyes, and when he raised his head, the ceiling split and crumbled.  
Sam gathered himself up, flooded with adrenaline, stunned but hyperaware of his surroundings, and made for the door. As soon as his hand fell upon the doorknob, he quickly pulled it back with a startled yelp. The doorknob was scalding. A large red mark was burned into his palm.  
_You are here a long time,_ cordziz _. You may as well try to find out your true name. I will not let you leave until I know it._  
Enraged, Sam stood, arms folded over his chest.  
“ _You_ won’t let _me_ leave? I’m not the one whose legs are so mangled he won’t be able to fucking _walk_ for the rest of his life!” he exploded at the blonde, who blinked slowly and gestured at the foot of his bed.  
_Pull up the covers,_ he instructed. Surprised, Sam followed orders and let the blanket drop in shock. No trace of the accident they’d been involved in remained. The man’s legs were healed. Smooth, pale skin covered them once again, traced by veins and already dusted in fine hair.  
“You’re healed,” Sam muttered stupidly. “You’re healed, and I hit you, and I thought you were going to die, and –“  
_My kind do not die easily,_ cordziz _. I will fare well. And you will, as well, if you will disclose to me your Name. I will protect you._  
Sam nodded, stunned, unable to think straight, the implied threat covered up by the promise of protection. A thought occurred to him. Did he really want the protection of a creature like this? Who knew what else he was capable of?  
The wind outside howled louder. Electricity and something like petrichor and ozone crackled in the air, and suddenly, rain was falling in the room. Something like blue fire began to pour from the man’s mouth in trickles, running down his chin in thin lines.  
A knock interrupted the tense silence. In a split second, the man-creature destroyed the illusions. The room was bone-dry once again, the walls were smooth and whole, his legs and thorax were mangled, and his skin spotted in bruises. Sam blinked, not knowing what to make of this.  
“Come in,” he called. The door opened. Anais came in, carrying a clipboard under her arm, and stood there for a small while, gazing at the man ( _creature_ ), shaking her head sadly.  
“He’s a right mess,” she sighed. “If he survives this, he’ll have complications for the rest of his life.”  
“I already feel bad enough as it is,” Sam retorted coldly and bowed his head into his hands. Anais gave him a sympathetic look, and he returned the favour with a weak, watery smile.  
“Sorry to be rude. I just… I can’t get over the fact that I might have killed someone, and not in a skirmish or during a life-and-death situation.”  
Anais nodded.  
“I understand. Do you want me to leave you alone with him? Give you some time to think?”  
“Yeah,” Sam accepted and closed his eyes, exhausted. “Thanks.”  
“No problem,” Anais replied gently and left the room, shutting the door softly behind her.  
As soon as she was out of earshot, the man opened his eyes and gazed at Sam. They were normal, now. White sclera, pupils, pale blue irises. Shaken, Sam leaned against the wall, hands on his knees, and forced himself to breathe steadily.  
“I don’t know what the hell you are, but you’re definitely not human, and I’m not staying around you any longer than I have to,” he pledged, glaring at the man-creature.  
The creature snorted. _You will stay as long as I decree it,_ fafen _, and you will make no attempt to escape, or I will bring you back most unpleasantly._  
“Sure,” Sam replied. “Tell me your name, so I know who I’m taking orders from.”  
He knew better than to be sarcastic, but the creature’s attitude did nothing but piss him off, and he couldn’t resist a bit of snark.  
To his surprise, the blonde let out a tiny puff of air and shook his head. _Not that. Never that. Ask me my Title, my Given Name, but do not ask my Name of me._  
Sam clenched his jaw. “Fine, then. Your… Title. Tell me your title.”  
_Lucifer,_ the blonde replied bluntly, without hesitation, without fear. Sam burst out into startled laughter. Pale blue eyes narrows in anger.  
_You dare to mock me, human?_ the creature spat. Sam forced himself to stop.  
“You’re not Lucifer. Lucifer’s an angel, and you are definitely not an angel,” he accused and folded his arms over his chest.  
_There is no such thing as your “angels”,_ cordziz _. The beings you call angels are an ancient and alien race from the farthest corners of the Cosmos, and we know all and can do all, and you confused us with God-sent beings. God as you think of Him does not exist, either. God is incomprehensible. You would go mad simply upon hearing His name,_ the creature ( _Lucifer_ ) explained gently, patiently.  
“Alright, Satan, then… you can tell me what I have to do with all this?” Sam asked and raised an eyebrow, arms folded over his chest. The blonde’s lips curved into a tiny, sardonic sneer.  
_Not Satan. And it’s_ Shai’tan _. He is much weaker than am I, as well as more violent, more aggressive, more petty, and more self-centred. There’s nothing wrong with self-centred, and some of his supposed followers follow the concept of selfishness as a maxim, but he takes it to a painful extreme. No, I do not appreciate being likened to him. Take care you do not repeat your mistake._  
Sam nodded. “So, uh… Sh- _Sheet-en_ \- am I saying this right? – he’s actually what we would call the Devil? And you’re not? Am I understanding this right? So everything I’ve been taught is wrong, and here I am, having a conversation with _Lucifer_. I can’t believe it.”  
_Sam,_ Lucifer asked gently. Sam raised his head and gazed at him. The creature closed his eyes and continued gently, _You appreciate beauty, do you not? And I assume you’d rather live in a world in which light existed than one in which it was perpetually dark? Also, you’re human. You must own CDs or an iPod or whatever it is that your kind use for music._  
“Yeah,” Sam offered. Lucifer smiled warmly.  
_Do you need more examples of how I help you? You’re able to hold this conversation with me. Without my influence, you wouldn’t have the mental capacity to communicate with me in such efficiency._  
Sam didn’t quite know how to respond. Of course he’d heard of the Enlightenment myth, and all the crap Luciferians talked about, but to hear that it was true – from what claimed to be Lucifer himself, no less – that was a different story.  
The concept was mind-blowing.  
_You’re confused,_ Lucifer observed gently. __  
“Yeah,” Sam accepted and leaned back tiredly. “Tell me. Explain all _this_ -“ and here he waved his hands around the room to emphasise _this_ “-happened. I want to know _everything._ ”  
_Then relax,_ cordziz _, and let me tell you a tale the likes of which Man has never heard before,_ Lucifer offered, and Sam nodded, and he began his story.


End file.
